


Silver and Cold

by inatshej



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Coming Out, Cultural References, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Stiles, Loneliness, M/M, New York City, Subways, Tags Are Fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inatshej/pseuds/inatshej
Summary: Stiles admits to himself finally that it is cold, quiet and lonely. It didn't change when he met Peter, but at least he could forget about it. Somehow the thing with Peter ends up hurting him even more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Steter fic. It was so hard to write. It's way more angsty than my other fics. Title is from AFI song, Silver and Cold. Any mistakes are mine, and I'm sorry for them - English is not my first language. Mentioned book 'Blue: The History of The Colour' is really good :)

1\. Silent

Stiles walks around in his apartment, preparing to go out. He is in a good mood, probably about to meet with Peter. He laces his shoes and looks around. He likes this place with its silver accents. It still hits him how quiet it is in here, it always does, when he turns off the TV or music, even with the always busy New York City outside.

He takes his coat and keys, searches for his phone. When was the last time he's heard from his dad? He frowns. Well, long, but it's normal, they both work and live in the different cities. He notices the device on his desk. Right, he was thinking of sending a message to Scott when he saw him on Facebook. He didn't, it would be too weird to suddenly get in touch now. They drifted away quite a long time ago, back in college, and then he got his job. It just happens – you meet someone, you lose contact.

He went out, closed the door. This silence was so eerie. It reminded him of his always quiet workplace – he has a room for himself. He is grateful for that, of course.

It was cold. Late autumn, closing to winter now. He remembered going out from the bar with Peter the first night they met. It was freezing then. What were they talking about? He was laughing at something.

He takes the tube, listens mindlessly to the automatic voice repeating the names of the stops. Funny thing, he takes the same service in the morning and afternoon for, how many years now? Four?, and yet he never sees the same faces.

He passes the stop he usually goes out on to go to work and thinks about the report he is due to Tuesday. He likes his job and he is pretty good at it. He first started working there as a shopping assistant selling books, and he was happy enough. After a year, he got promoted to be a manager. It was surprising and challenging – he was working all the time back then. However, the feeling of responsibility eased up after a couple of months. He was a manager for his team for almost two years before finally being introduced to the position he holds now.

It's a satisfying, interesting job. He gets to research the trends to predict which books they should promote, he researches the expectations of the different readers, he researches the company's risks and opportunities.

Unless they lack the staff and he gets send to work somewhere else, like winter last year. So many people had fallen sick he had to help out in another department, leaving his own responsibilities behind. When he finally caught up with everything he took one day off.

He knew he needed it. He didn't know what to do with it. He has spent the whole long weekend playing computer games. He had no idea how he could make use of his time differently. He hooks up enough during a week.

Well, but back then he didn't know Peter.

He takes off at the next station and makes his way to the gay bar. He used to hook up there sometimes. It was far from perfect, but enough to ease the tension from work.

He would wake up the next day to look at the guy next to him and frown, wondering what was the man's name. All those one night stands left a bad taste in his mouth.

He comes in and looks around, searching for Peter. He is in his usual spot at the end of the bar. He smiles and comes closer, taking off his coat, looking in those blue eyes.

They would talk a lot, drink a bit, go to one hotel or the other, or this another one, they all look the same. Peter would fuck him. He is always on the verge of too rough, but it's Peter. First, Stiles could blow him. Or rather, Peter would fuck his mouth, making Stiles go deep throat. Slap him, pin him to the bed, bite his neck, pound into him.

Peter always left early.

 

2\. Cold

Peter sees Stiles lying on the bed in the morning, sheets tangled, legs apart. He is breathing slowly, his dick is flat and visible between his thighs.

It's disgusting.

Peter isn't gay, never was. He first came in the gay bar just to see what it's like. He went out knowing he will return.

He had sex with men and women, anything to keep his mind off things when it was too much sometimes.

He met Stiles, hooked up with him, met him again, hooked up again, and it works like that. They see each other by chance and have sex. They don't talk about anything important, both just look for a way to spend a good time without responsibility. He doesn't know what is Stiles' job, if he has any family, what he plans to do with his life further on.

He knows that Stiles likes to play _Fallout_ and _Grand Thief Auto_ , reads comic books and has heard about the conflict between John Constable and William Turner, but still thinks they were both great artists.

It was good like that. It was supposed to stay like that.

But Stiles keeps coming closer, smiling at him, kissing him, making him uncomfortable. It's just unpleasant.

He waited at the station for the tube to come. He was nothing like all those men he's met at the bar. Stiles wasn't the same either, but-

He doesn't care.

This early in the morning there were only two other persons besides him in the carriage.

He looked through the window at the pale with clouds sky. He noticed a newspaper lying on the seat next to him. There was an article about the war in Africa, a conflict between two groups.

He has read the text and saw psychologist's opinion next to the article. It was short, just a small column for her thoughts.

_The groups engaged in the conflict were both raised to believe there is no way of reconciliation. They believe they have to continue fighting, because the other side will annihilate them, given the chance. They construct their idenity as opposed to the other group and can see no similarities, no shared interests. They consider themselves completely different, dehumanise the other party. It's not a conflict with people and they stories and tragedies on both sides – both groups believe to be the real victims there. In such a situation, it's really hard to find a solution._

He keeps staring at the text. He knows it's just a few words from a psychologist he's never even heard about earlier in a free copy of a newspaper anyone can get.

_They construct their identity as opposed..._

He doesn't go to the gay bar for the next two weeks. Stiles is probably surprised, but it's not like they had any real arrangement.

He goes to the bookstore, needing to look through the newly published tomes. He is working on a dissertation about the perspectives on colours by different artists.

He chooses the books and leaves them at the desk, waiting for the shopping assistant.

Instead, he sees Stiles.

They look at each other – the surprise visible in Stiles' big eyes. He averts his gaze and proceeds to do his work.

'Awkward meetings are awkward', he mutters. His blush goes down to his chest and Peter remembers vividly how he arched his back when Peter, deep inside, held his neck almost choking him, staring at the reddened skin.

Having no idea why exactly is he doing it, he takes one of the books from Stiles, their fingers touching lightly. Stiles flushes even more.

'Oh, yeah, that book's pretty good', he says, trying to mask his reaction. So obvious. Peter glances down, it's _Blue: The History of The Colour_ by Michael Pastoureau.

'Is that so?', he asks, interest piqued.

'Uh, yeah', Stiles says, still avoiding looking at Peter and working with those long fingers.

Fuck, Peter could take him right here, right now.

Stiles starts talking about the book and Peter can't stay silent when it comes to the art. He isn't sure how long they have discussed the topic when Stiles startles, checking the time.

'Uh, sorry, I need to go help Heather, she is alone here, that's why I'm helping her today'.

'So it's not your normal job?'. And why does he care?

'No, I'm normally working in the office. Anyways-', he stops. 'See you around', he finishes.

 _See you around_ holds no meaning.

He goes out on the cold air. Looks at the books and knows none of them will be as engaging as the conversation he just had.

 

3\. Alone

Stiles doesn't see Peter again. He should have expected it. He didn't.

He walks out of the gay bar by himself again and feels pathetic. He knows he needs to change something here or he'll do something-

he just needs to _change_ something.

He stands alone in the middle of the quiet street in the night, he is cold, but doesn't move, fearing what little determination he has now will leave him if he so much as blinks too hard.

He calls his dad.

He should have done it long ago, of course, he thinks, looking at the old table in his childhood's house. He gazes at the chairs, anywhere but his dad who still didn't answer after hearing Stiles' admission that he didn't want to keep in touch, because he didn't want to talk about what he does. Because he is gay.

'So, I guess I'll go to a hotel', he says, taking his luggage.

He stayed. He met Scott and Allison by chance. He talked. His dad hugged him. He didn't forget Peter. Still, those few days in Beacon Hills, away from New York, were one of the best he had in-

in a long time.

 

4\. Silver

Peter lost his entire family years ago. He kept living having no idea why bother at times. He tries to forget it by indulging himself in whatever he can.

Stiles was such indulgence, before it turned out that Peter should forget about him too. What he did to the man was shameful. He was hurting him, again and again, somehow convinced that he could if Stiles was gay, different, lesser human. He doesn't know how Stiles will react if he ever sees him now. Spit at him, maybe. He still wishes to meet him when he thinks about the countless talks they had.

He is fucked up, a mess, and the only man who could ease his mind probably loathes him by now.

He finds Stiles by coincidence, going out of a library.

He can't tear his eyes off him.

'Peter?', Stiles asks. 'Didn't expect to meet you here. Are you working nearby?'.

'Yes', he answers, feeling as if he is only dragging the inevitable, 'I'm the art history's professor'.

'Huh'.

What does _huh_ mean? Should he answer? How?

He winces at his thoughts.

'I kind of didn't see you lately', says Stiles. 'I guess it was for the better, though'.

_Of course it was._

He gazes at Stiles. Who knows when will be the next time he has the opportunity?

'I'm sorry', says Peter. He wants to express so much more, yet the only thing that comes out is another, 'I'm sorry'.

Stiles grimaces. 'I hope so. But I was in the wrong as well. I should have reacted to the way you were treating me'.

There was nothing more to say now. Peter should go on ahead.

He stays in place, trying to soak in everything about Stiles, all the details he can. He turns his head forcefully. 'I should go'.

'I-', starts Stiles, averts his eyes, closes them and starts again. 'I don't want you to go'.

Peter looks up at him. 'You should'.

'Well, I don't', shoots Stiles and cringes. 'I want to try'.

Stiles watches him now, determined, his cheeks reddened from the cold air, contrasting with dark blue sky and somehow silver in this light snow. Peter will never forget this beautiful sight.

'Will you let me?', he asks barely audible.

'Yes'.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you!


End file.
